


The Whole Truth

by 1863



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Extra Treat, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: The superpowers are only temporary, but for Bruce, they might be a catalyst for something that's anything but.





	The Whole Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosencrantz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosencrantz/gifts).



> This is set in the DCEU but it does riff on an obscure (?) bit of comics canon - namely, that Clark donating blood temporarily gives the recipient superpowers.

The steel beam crumples like paper in his hands.

Interesting, Bruce thinks. He’d barely applied any pressure at all. 

He moves to the pile of bricks, picks one up, squeezes. 

It turns to rubble, reddish-brown powder staining his palms as rough chunks fall from his fingers. There's no damage to his skin, not even a scratch. 

“Nice,” Arthur says.

“Yeah.” Victor scans the test results. “I’d say that’s pretty conclusive evidence.”

“I agree.” Diana gives Bruce a penetrating look. “How are you feeling?”

The automatic _I’m fine_ is on the tip of his tongue but Bruce pulls it back just in time, and not only because Diana’s got the lasso on her. He’s mostly gotten used to being on a team now, shedding a few carefully chosen layers and learning when to pull back and when to push, but old habits die hard. Still, this was important—it affected the whole team and he had to put that first. 

“I feel…” He trails off. “Good. Strong.” He licks his lips. “Powerful.” 

“Well,” Barry says, “looks like there’s nothing to worry about for now then, right?”

Bruce nods slowly. 

“Right,” he says. “Alfred and I will run a few more tests tonight, and I’ll keep monitoring my vitals in case anything comes up. But in the meantime, we can probably call it a day.”

The others start heading out. Barry zips past him with a goodbye that’s lost in the wake of the speed force; Victor nods a farewell; Diana gifts him with a reassuring smile. Even Arthur gives his shoulder a hard nudge as he steps past, face breaking into a wide grin when, for the first time ever, it doesn’t make Bruce stumble back. 

But Clark leaves without so much as a word or a backward glance, his face carefully and deliberately held blank. 

Interesting, Bruce thinks again. Very interesting. 

**

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Clark’s back stiffens but he doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bruce walks farther into the room, circling the large table that Clark is hunched over until he's on the opposite side. 

“Clark.”

“I’ve been busy, that’s all.” He gestures to the papers strewn between them, scattered across the table top: satellite photos, floorplans, schematics. “We need to find out more about this company and why they wanted you killed.”

“Lots of people want Bruce Wayne killed,” Bruce points out. “He’s kind of a dick.” 

Clark doesn’t laugh. 

“They _shot_ you, Bruce.” 

He’s in an ugly flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, glasses perched on his nose, but the expression on his face right now is entirely Superman’s. 

“I know,” Bruce says. “I was there.” 

“ _Bruce_.” It bursts out of him, hard and angry and sharp. “You could have _died_ , do you get that? If I hadn’t been there to give you my blood, if Alfred hadn’t been able to—” 

Clark stops abruptly. He scrubs a hand over his face and to Bruce’s surprise he actually looks _tired_ —not physically, perhaps, but mentally, emotionally? Very much so. 

“About that,” Bruce says, more seriously now. “I never got a chance to thank you.” 

Clark waves him away. “We’ve saved each other’s lives more than once already; let’s just call it even.”

But that's just the point, Bruce doesn't say. They were never going to be even. Bruce knew that, regardless of how many times Clark said otherwise. He could spend a whole lifetime trying to make up for the things he'd done but now, even a lifetime wasn't going to be enough. 

When Alfred told him what had happened, that Clark had immediately insisted on giving him his blood and wouldn't take no for an answer, all Bruce could think of was the question he'd asked Clark not long after they'd met:

_Tell me, do you bleed?_

Doomsday taught him the answer was more than a simple yes—Clark definitely bled, but he bled for other people. And now, he'd bled for Bruce. 

Clark gives him a strange look. Belatedly, he realises that he's been silent a beat too long.

Bruce opens his mouth, ready to ask whether Clark had known what would happen—that his blood wasn’t just a gift of life, but goddamn _superpowers_ too—and abruptly closes it again. Every possible answer, Bruce suddenly realises, would only make him angry. A no meant Clark hadn’t thought about the risks; a yes meant he knew what the risks were and ignored them anyway. Either way, Bruce doesn’t want to deal with it right now, not when he’s got other things on his mind, and not when Clark still looks so strangely tired. There would be time for lectures later.

“You don’t have any idea how long it will last?” Bruce asks instead. “Or why it’s just the strength and invulnerability, and not any of your other powers?”

Clark blinks, seemingly surprised by the question. 

“Uh, no idea, I’m afraid,” he says. “I mean, I'm pretty sure it's only temporary. But I didn’t…” Clark trails off and his face goes stony again. “You lost a lot of blood. I didn't think you'd need so much of mine.”

“Clark.” Bruce waits until Clark meets his eyes. “I’m _fine_.” 

It takes a little while but eventually, Clark’s expression relaxes. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you are.”

Bruce is faintly glad the Superman face is gone but something still doesn’t quite add up for him.

“Is that why you left so quickly the other day? When we were testing the limits of what I could do?” Clark tenses again and Bruce frowns. Clark’s behaviour made no sense, unless—

“Are you worried I might accidentally hurt someone?” 

“What?” Clark gives him a blank look. “No, of course not. I know you’d never risk that.” 

As always, his sincerity throws Bruce a little off-balance. He still remembers what it was like, having Clark’s neck giving way under the weight of his armoured boot, entirely ready to use that spear and so convinced he was doing the necessary thing that he never stopped to wonder if it was the right thing. Clark must remember it too, and yet—here he was, still capable of saying things like this, still capable of believing that Bruce was a good man despite them not always seeing eye to eye.

“I know being Batman’s not quite the same thing as having super-strength,” Clark adds, a little uncertainly, “but I also know it means you understand how difficult it can be already.”

Bruce frowns again. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I mean, that’s why I’m not worried that you won’t be able to control it. You already understand how hard it is. To seem—” Clark clears his throat. “Normal.”

And it was true; Bruce did know what that was like, knew exactly what it took to keep up the Bruce Wayne facade. But he hadn’t always understood the effort Clark had to put in just to seem so—so _ordinary_ , not until the team came together and he saw for himself just how disciplined Clark needed to be. Always aware of what his body was doing and how it could affect his surroundings; always hyper-alert about the damage he could cause if he ever slipped up or lost control. It was… impressive, that level of discipline, and even before they got past each other’s outermost defences Bruce still admired the work it must have taken to achieve it. Self-discipline, after all, was something Bruce _did_ understand.

“You still haven’t told me why you’ve been avoiding me,” Bruce says, steering the conversation back to the original subject. 

Clark opens his mouth to protest again but then seems to think better of it. He slumps in defeat, hands braced on the edge of the table. 

“Clark." Bruce approaches slowly, rounding the table as he speaks. “Something’s bothering you, something about me. If this affects the team when we’re on a mission—” 

“It _won’t_.”

“Oh?” Bruce stops when he’s within arm’s reach and leans one hip against the side of the table. “Then why did you skip the post-mission briefing this afternoon? You practically used your superspeed, you left so fast.” 

Clark doesn’t answer. But his jaw tightens and he looks away, quickly, like he doesn’t want Bruce to see it.

Bruce has seen Clark when he’s angry, knows all too well how it hardens his face and his eyes, but he doesn’t think Clark is angry right now. There’s an unhappy slant to the line of his mouth, a certain hesitation in his eyes when he glances over and looks away again. He almost seems—

Bruce tries to cut the thought off but once the idea is there, it refuses to be ignored. Snapshots of the past two weeks flash through his mind, one after another, in rapid succession: Clark trying not to look at him as he tested his new strength, something guarded in his blue, blue eyes; Clark staring a beat too long when he unveiled his new, less heavily-armoured batsuit. Clark watching when he took down a thug with precise, controlled accuracy; Clark stopping short when he caught Bruce in the middle of a training session, wearing nothing but a pair of loose gym shorts. 

_I know you’d never risk it_ , Clark had said. 

Against all the odds—and against Bruce's better judgement—he and Clark are something like friends now, Clark apparently in possession of some kind of Kansas sorcery that made it impossible to keep him at a distance. And it wasn’t for Bruce’s lack of trying; he might not have been outright hostile but he certainly hadn’t been welcoming, either. But Clark just kept at him, using all the stubborn determination he seemed to approach everything with, and eventually, he succeeded in doing something very, very few others had ever managed: he wore down Bruce _and_ the Bat.

So Clark knows Bruce pretty well by now, knows that he never acts without weighing the outcome against the risk. But what Clark didn't know was that sometimes—if he wanted an answer badly enough—Bruce would just as easily throw stats out the window and play bad odds anyway. 

Bruce closes the distance between them slowly, so slowly Clark doesn’t seem to realise what’s happening until Bruce is in his personal space. 

“What are you—” 

The words die on Clark’s tongue when Bruce reaches out and touches his face. 

It’s just a thumb, tracing his cheekbone; just a fingertip, stroking his jaw. But Bruce feels Clark shiver, and hears his breath catch in his throat. 

_Clark Kent_ , Bruce marvels. _The man of steel._ Trembling from nothing more than a hand cupping his cheek.

 _My hand_ , Bruce thinks.

This should be enough. Bruce has pretty much confirmed his suspicions and at this point, they still have plausible deniability. It didn't have to change anything between them, and more importantly, nothing good could come of taking this any further. Nothing. 

But something keeps Bruce rooted to the spot, hand still on Clark’s face, until that same something prompts him to slide his hand forward and into Clark’s soft, dark hair. Clark’s eyes are wide, shocked almost, but he doesn’t move away and that has to count for something, Bruce thinks, despite the fact that he’s never seen Clark look this anxious before. Not even when he’d been punching him in the face.

“Clark,” Bruce says. “Let me… test a theory.”

His voice seems to snap Clark out of it. He jerks away, just a step or two, but it might as well be miles.

“Don’t,” Clark says. His voice is softer than Bruce has ever heard it but it still stops him dead. “Don’t just do it to—” Clark’s jaw tightens. “I’m not some… science experiment.”

A dozen flippant answers come to Bruce in the space of a few heartbeats and he discards them all just as quickly. He’s not Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, here; he’s not Batman, notorious vigilante, either. Even after everything Bruce had done, all the mistakes he’s made, Clark was still willing to meet him somewhere in the middle. Surely now, on the cusp of something he’d never expected, that kind of openness deserved better than some throwaway line.

“What if,” Bruce says slowly, some part of him already starting to regret it, “it’s a theory I’ve wanted to test for a while now?”

Clark glances over.

“A while?” 

“A long while.” 

Bruce knows that Clark can see what the admission cost him; that he can hear it too, in the sudden rapid increase in Bruce’s pulse. 

Clark is silent for a some time, just watching Bruce closely, a small frown on his face. But he must find whatever he was looking for because he reaches up and takes his glasses off, and carefully sets them down on the table behind him.

“Clark?” Bruce asks, a little wary.

But Clark just smiles, wide and sweet and—yes—a little hungry, too. 

Then he ducks his head and looks up at Bruce from under his eyelashes. It’s such a clichéd move, one that Bruce has used himself on countless people countless times before, but on Clark it looks like something real, something genuine, and of course, Bruce thinks to himself, of course Clark would be sincere even when he’s trying to seduce someone. 

“You wanted to test a theory?” Clark asks, stepping closer and settling his hands on Bruce’s hips. 

Bruce nods, allowing himself a small smile of his own. It makes something dark bloom in Clark’s eyes and against his will, Bruce’s smile widens.

“I did, yes,” Bruce says. “I do.”

“Well, then.” Clark tugs him closer, with enough force that Bruce stumbles into him and just like that, they’re suddenly pressed together—hip to hip, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of science.”

Bruce has no idea who closes the last few inches between them, who it was that was brave enough to make that first, daring move. But the next thing he’s aware of is Clark’s lips on his, mouth opening up for him as he slides a thigh between Clark’s legs. 

“God, _Clark_ ,” Bruce groans, when he realises that Clark is somehow already hard. 

He instinctively grabs Clark’s ass and hauls him closer. Clark makes a small noise of surprise but when their cocks line up his hips thrust hard and Jesus Christ, Bruce thinks vaguely, he’s survived any number of unlikely scenarios but Clark rubbing against him and panting into his neck just might be the thing that actually kills him.

And it’s good, it’s great, but it’s not quite enough. Bruce tears his mouth away from Clark’s lips just long enough to reach around him and sweep the the table clear. 

“My glasses,” Clark protests distractedly. 

Bruce just ignores him, picking him up by the waist and dumping him onto the table. Clark falls silent at the manhandling but his eyes go so dark, so _hot_ , that Bruce half-expects them to turn red. And all at once he understands exactly why Clark is allowing this to happen, and why it's him that it's happening with.

Bruce wraps his fingers around Clark’s wrists and presses them into the table, at either side of Clark’s head. He feels Clark testing the strength of his grip and when it’s clear that he can’t make Bruce budge, Clark swallows thickly, a flush of pink spreading down his face and neck.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” Bruce says as he leans down, unable to keep the roughness out of his voice. “I’ll buy you a hundred pairs.”

Clark laughs a little but cuts off with a gasp when Bruce rolls his hips. Bruce does it again, slow and smooth and purposeful, and watches with rapt fascination as Clark starts to come apart. 

“ _Bruce_ ,” Clark moans. “God, you—” 

He throws his head back and shuts eyes, exposing the long line of his throat. The sight triggers a memory, of dust and rubble and the sickly green glow of kryptonite, but Bruce shoves it aside and focuses only on what’s important right now: Clark, shuddering beneath him; Clark, moaning his name. 

“Bruce,” Clark says again, desperate, and his voice is so deep that Bruce suddenly needs to get even closer than he already is; needs to get his hands and lips and tongue on bare, warm skin.

He lets go of Clark’s wrists and yanks Clark’s shirt open, just tears it apart with his hands. Clark doesn’t even protest, just reaches up and does the same to Bruce’s own shirt, fingers almost clumsy with impatience. Buttons bounce over the table and roll across the floor as Bruce pulls back just far enough to ditch his shirt altogether. And then Clark is touching him, big warm hands sweeping over his bare chest and stomach before he wraps his arms around Bruce’s shoulders and pulls him back down again.

“God, Bruce, you’re so—” 

Whatever he was going to say is cut off when Bruce captures his mouth again, words collapsing into deep rumbling moans that go straight to Bruce’s cock. 

“Jesus, Clark,” Bruce gasps, breaking the kiss as he somehow gets even harder. He levers himself up and Clark makes a small noise of protest.

“What,” Clark pants. “What are you doing, don’t go.”

Bruce’s stomach does an unexpected flip at those words but he ruthlessly shuts it down. Now’s not the time, he thinks, and flashes a perfect Bruce Wayne smile instead. Clark frowns a little but Bruce rolls his hips again, and Clark’s eyes actually roll back in his head. 

“Not going anywhere,” Bruce says, more breathless than he'd like to admit as he stares down at Clark beneath him.

The Superman suit doesn’t exactly hide anything but it’s still a revelation to see Clark like this, shirt half-off and cock straining against his jeans. His lips are kiss-swollen, face flushed and eyes heavy-lidded, chest rapidly rising and falling as Bruce keeps moving against him. He looks utterly pornographic and Bruce can’t quite believe it’s all because of him.

“Well I hope you’re going to do more than just stare, while you’re here,” Clark murmurs, a tiny smile at the corners of his perfect mouth. 

“I think I can manage that.” 

Bruce gives into temptation and bends his head, licking hungrily at one of Clark’s nipples. He’s rewarded with a choked-off moan and Bruce keeps it up for long minutes, licking and biting and sucking, hips rocking all the while, and Clark actually _writhes_ beneath him, as though it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. 

“God, god, Bruce,” Clark gasps, hands tightening painfully in Bruce’s hair as his back arches up off the table.

Bruce lifts his head, wanting to take in as much of this as Clark will allow, while he still can. Clark’s biting his lip, eyes shut tight, lamplight throwing the sculpted planes of his chest and stomach into stark relief. It's easy, Bruce thinks, staring, to see why people thought he was a god. Except that right now he’s got his hands on Bruce's ass, trying to get him to move again, and he's making little needy noises at the back of his throat, and whatever Clark is—god or man or alien, or all three of the above—Bruce can work with this. He knows what to do. A lifetime of carefully planned tabloid exposés hadn’t taught him nothing.

But then Clark makes a frustrated sound, somewhere between a gasp and growl, and the next thing Bruce knows he's flat on his back and staring up at Clark grinning down at him.

“Really?” Bruce asks, when he’s got his bearings back. “You used your superspeed for that?” 

Clark shrugs before grinding down against him. 

“It was an emergency,” he says, gasping a little. 

“I never thought of you as impatient before,” Bruce replies, voice too husky to be flippant. He settles his hands around Clark’s waist. “I like it.”

“I have a feeling you'll like this, too.”

Clark reaches between them and swiftly frees Bruce's aching cock. Just the first light touch makes Bruce buck up into his hand, and Clark laughs a little as he takes a firmer hold. 

“Now who's being impatient, hmm?”

Bruce doesn’t even bother replying, just reaches for Clark’s jeans. A few deft movements later, he’s got Clark in hand too.

“God, Bruce,” Clark gasps, as Bruce tightens his grip. “Are you sure you didn’t get the superspeed as well?” 

“Practice makes perfect,” Bruce replies, lips curling into a smirk without him even thinking about it. “You know I don’t do anything by halves.”

But something crosses Clark’s face then, another small frown not unlike the one that shadowed his face before, and without any warning he pushes Bruce’s hands away and presses them into the table. 

“No,” Clark says quietly, leaning in close. “You’re not going think about them, any of the other people you did this with. Not now.” He kisses Bruce hard, fiercely, like he can chase those memories away through sheer force of will. “It’s just me here,” he adds, when he pulls away. “Just you and me.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, panting, as much from the look in Clark’s eyes as the kiss itself. “Just you and me.”

Clark keeps staring down at him, an intense and unreadable expression on his face. But then he smiles, and smiles all the wider when he hears the sudden uptick in Bruce’s heartbeat.

“Using your super hearing isn’t fair, you know,” Bruce says. 

Clark shrugs. 

“Right now, I don’t really care.”

He lets go of Bruce’s hands. Then he slowly licks his own palm, smirking a little as he thoroughly licks over each finger too. Bruce's eyes narrow as he watches Clark suck hard on three fingers, cheeks hollowing as he goes, but before he can say anything Clark reaches between their bodies again and wraps his slicked-up hand around both their cocks. 

“ _God_ ,” Bruce bursts out, before Clark even starts moving. He cups Clark’s ass and drags him closer and Clark is so _hard_ , so hard and hot against him, that Bruce’s hips start moving on instinct, deep slow thrusts that make them both moan. 

“Yeah,” Clark agrees, voice thick with lust. “Yeah.”

Then words become useless as Clark starts stroking them both. But his hand is a little too unsteady, and his movements are a little too uncertain, until Bruce groans in frustration and tangles his own fingers with Clark’s, forcing him to tighten his grip. 

“Fuck,” Clark gasps, surprised. 

“Maybe later,” Bruce says, flashing a quick grin. “But Clark—” 

Bruce pulls him down and kisses him, hard and dirty and so, _so_ good, tongue fucking into his mouth before he forces Clark to start stroking again. Clark has to break the kiss when their hands start moving, head on Bruce's shoulder as he moans into Bruce's neck. 

“You don’t need to control yourself, Clark,” Bruce whispers into his ear, voice hoarse with things he doesn't want to think about. “Not now, not with me.” 

Clark pulls back a little, just far enough to see Bruce’s face. His eyes are wide as understanding passes over them, and together they tighten their joined hands, tighter and hotter and much, much stronger than Bruce would have been able to take before. Bruce lets Clark take the lead for now, lets him work up a steady rhythm, and as maddeningly slow as it is Bruce doesn’t push him for more. It’s a ride in itself, this slow intense build, Clark panting into his neck and moaning into his ear; Clark licking at the sweat on his chest and scraping his teeth along his collarbone. And Clark kisses him too, again and again, deep and desperate and _hungry_ , and just for a moment Bruce lets himself pretend it's because Clark’s thought about them doing this before, that maybe Clark’s been starving for it all along. 

But soon enough Bruce knows it's coming to a head, that they’re both getting close—Clark’s moans sounding increasingly desperate and both their thrusts getting shorter and harder to control. He's got just enough brain power left to take the lead, speeding up their strokes but keeping them _right_ on the edge, their pre-come adding a slickness that makes it that much harder to not just give in and let go. But if this is the only time that Bruce gets to have this, he's going to draw it out for as long as he possibly can—even if it makes him go mad. Bruce has to shut his eyes against it; so good it's overpowering, so intense it's overwhelming; the whole world narrowing down to Clark’s hands and mouth on him, the sound and taste and smell of him, the undeniable reality of his weight against his chest. And Clark's not much better, shaking with the effort of keeping himself on the precipice until, finally, it becomes absolutely unbearable. 

“God, please, _Bruce_ ,” Clark begs against his mouth. He shudders hard as Bruce slowly circles the head of his cock with a calloused thumb. “ _Please_.” 

His eyes are shut tight, almost like he’s in pain, and Bruce is seized with a sudden urgency, a desperate need to see Clark come. He speeds up his strokes and tightens his grip, and Clark actually cries out, free hand clawing into the table so hard the wood starts to splinter. 

“More,” Bruce whispers hoarsely, knowing they won’t last much longer. His other hand is still on Clark’s ass and he digs his fingers into the firm muscle; it barely yields, even with his increased strength. It pushes Bruce even closer, cock twitching in their joined hands. “Clark,” he gasps, “ _more._ ”

And Clark understands, stroking them harder and faster than Bruce has ever been touched, so fast he knows their hands would be a blur if he could look anywhere other than Clark’s flushed and beautiful face. And a few more seconds is all it takes, Clark’s speed and both their strength propelling the pleasure so high that it hits Bruce without warning, like an unexpected punch in the chest, and as Bruce watches and hears and _feels_ Clark coming too, body pressed against him and fingers curled around him, their cocks still hot and pulsing in their hands, Bruce can’t deny that he’s overcome with something more than just an orgasm.

**

Not that much changes, afterwards. They still lead separate lives—Bruce has to run Wayne Enterprises during the day and patrol Gotham at night; Clark still lives in Metropolis and works long hours at the Planet. They still argue, about things as trivial as what to have for dinner and as important as mission strategies with the League, and they still fuck, too—as often as they can, stealing an hour or two here and there whenever either of them can spare it. 

But although the differences are comparatively minor, Bruce doesn't kid himself into thinking they’re any less significant for being small. Because it’s other things, tiny things, the things Bruce never lets himself dwell on but carefully catalogues all the same, that really show just how much things between them have changed—and how far in over his head Bruce has let himself become. 

Clark in the cave, relaxed and comfortable, idly spinning in the desk chair while Bruce worked on something nearby. Clark’s spare glasses and notebooks and pens, scattered all over the lakehouse and even in the cave, left there like they belonged there. And the memory of Clark’s soft morning smile, voice rough with sleep as he says Bruce’s name, after those rare times they could afford to spend an entire night together.

Bruce takes careful note of all these things, because he knows he won’t have them for much longer. The superpowers, after all, are only temporary. Which means everything else is, too.

**

In the end, the super-strength lasts for a little over three months. 

Bruce tested his strength level religiously, twice a day, every day, not wanting to suddenly find himself powerless in the middle of a mission or a fight. He’d expected it to end slowly, a gradual tapering off, but it was more like a switch being flipped—one day he had it and the next, it was gone. 

It seemed fitting, to Bruce, that the same should happen to what he had with Clark. Still, he allows himself one small weakness and keeps the knowledge to himself for a few days longer than he knows he should. 

Unfortunately for Bruce, he doesn't realise just how big a mistake that is until he actually makes the announcement at the next meeting with the League. 

“You _what_?”

Clark’s voice is sharp with barely contained anger.

“I don’t have super-strength anymore,” Bruce says calmly. “It’s been gone since last Monday.” 

Clark’s jaw tightens. 

“And you only thought to tell me this now? Here? In front of the whole damn team?” 

Bruce narrows his eyes. 

“I don’t see why not. It affects us all.”

“It affects _you_ most of all!” Clark snaps. “What if there are side effects? What if we had to go on a mission? What if I hur—” Clark cuts himself off, but Bruce knows exactly what he was going to say. “It’s been over a _week_ , Bruce,” he adds. They both know he's talking about more than one thing but Bruce stubbornly stays silent. Clark shakes head and makes a frustrated sound. “For god’s sake, when are you going get over your martyr complex and actually let me look after you?”

Bruce’s face shutters in an instant.

“I don’t need your help, Clark.” His voice is so flat that the others wince. “I don’t need you to _look after_ me.” Bruce doesn’t hesitate, doesn't second-guess himself—he just does what he knows he needs to do. “I don’t need you for anything.” 

Clark flinches, almost like he’s been hit—but isn’t that laughable, Bruce thinks, watching Clark’s face harden in a way he hasn’t seen in months. A whole building could fall on him and Clark wouldn’t waver. And yet here he is, flinching from nothing more than a handful of words spat from Batman’s poisonous mouth.

Bruce braces himself for an argument but really, he ought to know better than that by now. Clark just stands and leaves without a word, the carefully controlled way he closes the door just as much of a tell as if he’d slammed it shut behind him.

“Uh,” Barry says. “What just—”

“Perhaps we should end the meeting early,” Diana interrupts. She gives Bruce a long, hard stare. “I believe Bruce has some things he needs to repair.”

Barry frowns. “You mean like equipment? Like the batplane? Or—oh! Maybe one of the cars? I could help—”

“Nah, man,” Arthur says, hauling Barry up with him as he stands. “This is something he needs to do on his own.”

“Yeah,” Victor agrees, standing too. “And soon,” he adds quietly, but not quietly enough that Bruce doesn’t hear him.

The three of them leave, quickly, Barry still looking utterly confused. But Diana lingers, pausing as she passes by Bruce’s chair. She seems to think for a moment, then carefully lays a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce stiffens immediately but Diana is nothing if not steadfast. She keeps her hand where it is, squeezing gently, and eventually, Bruce sighs, exhaling so forcefully that his back bends and his head bows. 

“Oh, Bruce,” Diana murmurs. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Bruce stares at the table, unwilling to meet her eyes.

_So he doesn’t have to do it to me first._

“Goodbye, Diana,” Bruce says.

Diana sighs. 

“Goodbye, Bruce.” She squeezes his shoulder one last time. “And good luck.”

**

He’s down in the cave when Clark comes to see him again, half-heartedly working on a repair to one of his spare batsuits. 

“That’s one of the old ones, isn’t it?”

Bruce’s hands pause over their work, but only briefly.

“Yes,” he says. “I need to use the armoured suits again, now that I’m not—” Bruce stops. “I need to use the armoured suits again.” He thinks about continuing the repairs but in the end, he puts the tools aside and pushes the the suit out of the way. No point in delaying the inevitable. He takes a moment to prepare himself and then he turns, smiling, wide and easy. “What can I do for you, Clark?”

Clark stares at him.

“I want an explanation,” he says, as though stating the obvious. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

“What for?” Bruce shakes his head and laughs a little. “Come on, Clark. We fuck, and you’re a good lay, but it’s not like it’s anything more than that.” Clark’s expression goes cold but Bruce doesn’t let himself stop, as ruthless with himself as he is with everything else. “I mean,” he adds with a lewd grin, “unless you wanted to try a new position or something—”

“ _Don’t_.” 

Clark’s voice is a solid stone wall, so hard and implacable that it shuts Bruce up immediately. Clark’s eyes bore into him, and although they're nothing but blue Bruce feels suddenly and unexpectedly exposed. Too late, he realises the fatal flaw in his plan: now that Clark’s seen behind the mask—every mask—he was never going pretend he didn’t know what Bruce had hidden there. No matter how much Bruce tried to distract him from it.

“Don’t,” Clark says again, “don’t _Wayne_ me, Bruce. We’re both grown men; if you want out, just say so.”

And Bruce sees the tense line of Clark’s shoulders, his hands balled into fists at his sides; he sees the look in Clark’s eyes that Clark probably thought was guarded but, to Bruce, is painfully easy to read. 

Clark was bracing himself for a blow, steeling himself against an expected hurt. And the sight of it makes Bruce's resolve start to crumble, as with sudden cold clarity he knows he won't be able to make himself do it this time, won't be able to follow through on a plan for the first time, possibly, in his entire adult life. He suddenly feels old, old and _tired_ , every punch and bullet and scar and sacrifice he's ever had to endure bearing down on him, and the Bruce Wayne veneer—already brittle to begin with—is crushed to pieces under the weight of it all.

“I assumed it was over,” Bruce says. He’s not surprised to hear how rough his voice is, how rusty; it’s been a while since he’s used it to tell this deep a truth. “Now that I’m… the way I was before.”

Clark sets his jaw, as stubborn as ever. 

“You mean the super-strength?” he asks. “You think that’s the only reason I—Jesus, Bruce, what do you think I am? Some kind of—of—” He casts around for an appropriate word. “Horndog?”

Bruce frowns. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Arthur.”

“ _Bruce_.” 

“Okay, yes,” Bruce admits, looking away. “That’s what I thought.”

“But—”

“Come on, Clark,” Bruce interrupts. “The only reason we even did it the first time was because the super-strength made you horny.”

“That’s not—” Clark flushes. “Well, yes, okay, that may be true. But it’s not the whole truth.”

“Clark—”

“No.” 

Clark cuts him off and steps closer, too close, crowding Bruce against the workbench. He seems to hesitate, then squares his shoulders, a determined look in his eyes, and Bruce almost laughs because it’s such a—a _Superman_ thing to do. But the laughter dies the instant Clark puts a hand on his face, cupping his cheek before slowly sliding into his hair. The exact same touch, Bruce realises, that Bruce had used on him, that very first time. 

“I’m going to say this,” Clark says. “And you’re going to listen.” He waits for Bruce to nod before he continues. “Yes, I thought the strength was hot. And yes, I liked not having to be careful with you while you had it. But, Bruce—” Clark smiles a little and shakes his head, fond and exasperated all at once. “You said I only wanted to do it the first time because the super-strength made me horny, right?” 

Bruce nods again, and Clark leans forward, slowly, until their foreheads touch. 

“But the whole truth,” he adds quietly, “is that the super-strength just made it impossible to hide the fact that I’ve _always_ been horny around you.” 

His voice is laced with dry humour but there’s no mistaking the warmth in it, nor the absolute conviction at its core. 

For a long moment, Bruce just lets that voice sink into him. Who knows, he thinks to himself, as they stand quiet and still and so close they’re breathing each other’s air, maybe some of that conviction would rub off on him, too.

“Always, huh?” Bruce asks, pulling away just far enough to see Clark’s face. 

Clark smiles, only a little embarrassed. 

“Pretty much, yeah.” He pauses and searches Bruce’s eyes. “Are we okay?”

Bruce stares at him for a minute, at his chiselled face and dark hair that curled just so. There was a time when the sight of him reminded Bruce of nothing so much as a marble statue—perfect, yes, but perfectly cold; as dispassionate and inhuman as any uncaring god of myth or legend. It still shakes him, sometimes, to think about how wrong he’d been.

“Yeah,” Bruce says, voice still rough, but getting stronger. He feels his face heat up and has to laugh a little at the absurdity of it all—he’s let the press catch him in god knows how many wildly compromising situations but it’s just Clark Kent, looking at him with a hopeful little smile, that manages to make him blush. “Yeah, Clark. We’re okay.”


End file.
